Marrying My Secret Baby Daddy - Chapter #2 - by Tessa Kelwyn

POV Audrey

I arrived at Canlis fifteen minutes late on Wednesday evening, still processing how Reed rescheduled our meeting within twenty-four hours after my grandfather's ambush to me.

That a CEO of his caliber cleared his schedule so quickly unsettles me—desperation or arrogance, I can't decide which is worse.

The hostess leads me through the restaurant's elegant interior, and I spot him immediately. Shane rises when I approach and his visible surprise at my appearance gives me savage satisfaction.

I've dressed for war tonight.

Light brown hair, that normally swept into waves, has been teased into something between bedhead and chaos. Pinned up loosely to show off dangling gold earrings that would make a rapper wince.

Bright red lipstick and eyes are rimmed with smoky liner so thick I look like I'm auditioning for a heavy metal music video, but making its blue color more striking.

And the dress. Jesus, the dress.

Crimson leather that clings to every curve like a second skin. Plunging low enough to leave nothing to imagination, hemmed high enough to make my grandmother roll in her grave.

I've paired it with a white fur stole—in May, for God's sake—and gold jewelry layered across my collarbone like I robbed a pawnshop on my way here.

Every inch of me screams new money. Tasteless. Desperate. Run.

Exactly as intended. Exactly my usual approach for these dates.

Because the thing is that in our world, men don't care about personality. They don't want wit or intelligence or ambition—not really. What they want is a polished trophy, a woman who photographs well and stays silent at charity galas.

Appearance is currency. Public image is everything.

I learned this lesson at Hilmond Academy, long before I ever understood its full weight. And I also learned to weaponize it.

Shane’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly as he takes in my ensemble. Good. Let him see exactly what he's signing up for.

Except… God, he's handsome as fuck.

The billboard didn't do him justice. Up close he’s taller than I expected—at least six-three, maybe six-four—the kind of height that makes me angle my neck and look up to meet his eyes.

His navy wool suit is unreasonably expensive, but even Italian tailoring can't quite contain what's underneath.

Broad shoulders strain against the fabric, his shoulders fill out that suit in ways that make my throat dry. The subtle flex of his forearms as he buttons his jacket hints at muscle built through discipline.

And his face… Short dark curls frame a sharp jaw, straight nose and lips that curve with the hint of secrets. But it's his eyes that nearly undo me.

Oliver's bright gray eyes. Staring at me from the face of the man who doesn't know he's a father.

I've had exactly zero boyfriends since prom night—by choice—and I refuse to start dissecting Shane Reed's devastating bone structure now.

Not when I have a performance to deliver.

"Shaney!" I practically shriek, loud enough for three nearby tables to turn.

I grab his face between my palms and plant kisses on both cheeks, feeling my crimson lipstick transfer onto his skin with each press.

"So wonderful to finally meet you again properly! Grandfather has told me absolutely nothing."

He blinks, touching his cheek where I've marked him. "Ms. Lennox. You're... certainly making an impression."

"Call me Audrey, please. We're practically engaged already!" I slid into my chair with exaggerated flourish, fur stole catching on the armrest. "This place is cute. Very... understated. Do they have chicken tenders? I'm absolutely famished."

The waiter approaches with the reverence befitting Shane's reservation, but I immediately make him uncomfortable.

"Excuse me, do you serve chicken tenders here? Maybe some mozzarella sticks?" I gesture toward Shane with a conspiratorial wink. "This one looks like he needs carbs. Add some color to those CEO cheeks, you know?"

The poor server's face cycles through confusion, horror, and professional neutrality in rapid succession. "We... I could inquire with the kitchen about—"

"She's joking," Shane says smoothly. "We'll start with the wine list."

"Oh, I only drink rosé," I announce, waving my hand dismissively. "The sweeter the better. Preferably something with a cartoon on the label. Do you have anything like that? Maybe a nice fish or a sunset?"

Shane's expression remains infuriatingly calm. "Their Sancerre is excellent. Perhaps—"

"French wine gives me the most terrible headaches."

I clutch my temple dramatically and prepare for word bombing.

"Ever since that unfortunate yacht incident in Monaco. Have you ever been to Monaco, Shaney? I was there with the Castellanos—you know the Castellanos, don't you?—and Maria had this case of Bordeaux that her father smuggled from some château, and we drank three bottles each watching the sunrise, and I'm fairly certain I proposed to a deckhand named Giuseppe before falling into the harbor."

I pause for breath. "The rescue was very dramatic. There were helicopters."

The waiter's pen hovers motionless over his notepad. Shane's mouth twitches, fighting something that looks dangerously close to a laugh.

"Rosé it is," he tells the waiter. "Your sweetest."

Throughout the appetizer course, I escalated my performance with theatrical precision. I talk with my mouth full while launching into a monologue about my extensive collection of designer shoes and their insurance values.

"I'll have my assistant look into spousal wardrobe provisions," he replies, dabbing his napkin against his lips. "Though I suspect our benefits package wasn't designed with your particular needs in mind."

I lean forward, squinting at his hairline with exaggerated scrutiny. "Speaking of benefits—do CEOs get bulk discounts on hair plugs? Because yours seems suspiciously perfect. Very consistent follicle distribution."

The waiter nearly drops the plates. Shane's mouth twitches again, and this time a ghost of actual amusement breaks through his composure.

"My hair follicles are unfortunately all original," he says, desert-dry. "Disappointing, I know. The bulk discount would've been fiscally responsible."

His unshakeable calm is becoming unnerving, really. Every outrage I throw at him slides off like water from marble.

When I "accidentally" fling béarnaise sauce on his sleeve while gesticulating wildly about my grandfather's creative tax shelters, he simply dabs at the stain with his napkin.

I notice the tightness around his eyes now, the slight tension in his jaw. He's reaching his limit—I'm sure of it.

"Don't you find it stuffy in here?" I fan myself dramatically. "The ventilation is atrocious."

"It is warm," he agrees, adjusting his collar.

"We should register for wedding gifts at Costco," I announced brightly. "Bulk savings. Very practical. Do you have a membership?"

Shane actually chuckles before catching himself—a real laugh, surprised out of him. And for one horrible second, I see the boy from prom night. The one who laughed at my terrible jokes while the room spun around us.

The one who held me like I mattered.

I excuse myself to the bathroom, needing desperately to regroup.

In the mirror, my reflection stares back—garish makeup, ridiculous jewelry, playing a part that's starting to feel less like armor and more like a cage.

Yet when I return to the table, Shane is gone and the waiter approaches with barely concealed mortification.

"Mr. Reed received an urgent call. He handled the check and insisted you order anything you'd like." He pauses. "Including multiple desserts."

I stand frozen beside the empty chair, something uncomfortable twisting beneath my ribs. He left. He actually left.

But why doesn't that feel like victory?

My phone buzzes before I reach my car.

Shane: Apologies for the abrupt departure. Tokyo waits for no one. This evening was unexpectedly educational.

I'm still scowling at the screen when another message appears.

Shane; Looking forward to experiencing all your fascinating dimensions. I have a feeling you have many more sides to reveal.

I stare at the words until they blur, my stomach sinking with the terrible realization that Shane Reed might be considerably harder to repel than I'd calculated.